


The Eating Out Affair

by Lizzen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4692656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waverley's elite team of international spies love the taste of each other, perhaps too much for their own good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eating Out Affair

Love is easy, loyalty is earned. 

Or is it the other way around?

*

Gaby likes the way Illya goes down on her; sweetly polite and slow. His hands are firm on her thighs, keeping them apart and still as she shakes. He takes his time and understands that sometimes she can't come like this. It's just, it's so nice. 

Napoleon is much more methodical; he knows how to take her from a steady build up to a breathless ecstasy. She's often spent by the time he wipes his face on the sheet, that she can't do much else for a while. 

Her boys taste her after a mission (sometimes before), and definitely when she shows up at their door with a bottle of vodka and a bored expression behind her shades. 

She's not much for them fucking her. Illya is too cautious; so terrified of breaking her as they shatter together against the floor. And Napoleon's so practiced at the art, it's the opposite of intimacy. She's not looking for just a good time. 

Gaby knows they fuck each other, and she knows it makes them significantly nicer in the morning. 

*

Waverley knows something is going on, but assumes it's just the girl and the Russian. U.N.C.L.E. succeeds by cutting all the bureaucratic red tape and chucking it all in the bin. Being stern with his ducklings about fraternizing seems a little off base. They get the job done, after all. 

Plus, Miss Teller and Mr. Kuryakin are, well, emotionally damaged according to their files. Seems fitting that daddy and mommy issues fall into bed. 

Solo, however, is another matter. He has ice in his avaricious, womanizing veins, Waverley believes. If the girl or the Russian need taking down, Solo will handle it without question.

(Waverley never knew about Comrade Kuryakin's watch.)

*

"We have 20 minutes till the lights come back on—" and the rest of his heated whisper is in Russian and filthy. Illya looks down at Solo, on his knees and reaching for his cock in the middle of a mission. 

"Don't you ever turn it off?" he hisses. 

Solo has Illya's cock down his throat, humming just enough to make Illya shutter like it's the end of days. He comes embarrassingly fast, shooting hard and wet into Solo's mouth. 

"When you've got it," Solo says, wiping his lips on Illya's pants and zipping him up. "You've got it." 

He stands and leans in, smelling like expensive cologne and sweat. "And I've got it."

Illya rolls his eyes as hard. "We have 15 minutes now."

*

Gaby has a taste for the spy world now. 

There's a problem, of course. 

See, there's only a few more times that she can play the role of Gabriella Teller, potential Nazi collaborator thanks to her father's and uncle's influence, before the remaining fascist networks know she's lying. 

Her use to U.N.C.L.E. as an asset is pretty much all used up. Waverley's already offered her protection and a nice flat in London with a stipend and stacks of fat ration cards. 

If she wants in, for real this time, she'll have to play like the boys; learn how to be anyone and no one.

But for now, she's in South America with an actual Nazi collaborator pushing her legs open and his mouth sucking a bruise on her thigh like a lover. She breathes in the hot night air and considers if she has the strength to strangle him with her legs in this position.

Illya will teach her how, she decides. When she gets back.

In the meantime, she lets her mark get her off, as she considers how to turn a honeypot alias to that of a black widow. 

See, Gaby has no interest in giving this up for safety and security, for a husband and children. 

Later, by the time Napoleon arrives, she's pulling a sheet over her new boyfriend's face. He takes her arm and looks her in the eye, searching for something that he can't find. And then he smiles, impressed.

Maybe it's the spy world that has a taste for her.

*

No one knows what Illya Kuryakin does when he goes home at night. 

Those at U.N.C.L.E. HQ whisper about it, thrilled by what they don't know. 

Gaby gets an idea after a string of nights in safe houses, brief stints in flats all over Europe and South America, and about a week undercover on an island near Japan. 

She imagines that he doesn't have much furniture, and what he has is probably broken. She imagines that he exercises, cleans his weapons obsessively, and eats simply. She imagines that he wakes up constantly from night terrors. She imagines that he has kept Mrs. Kuryakin's finest dresses, and her pearls, and her diamonds, and that Illya has refused to sell any of them to feed his starving belly. She imagines that he never takes a woman there, or a man; he likes to keep that outside of his space. She imagines that he goes there to seek peace. She imagines that he goes there to be violent and alone. 

She's seen the aftermath of his episodes, be it someone else's broken property or bones. 

Her father always warned her against violent men. (Which made her wonder, oh how she wondered, why he would agree to work for violent men.)

And yet, Illya treats her like he probably treats his mother's pearls; as if she is a miracle of nature strung together by fragile, old string. 

She doesn't have to wonder what it's like to be handled more viciously; she's seen Napoleon's blossoming bruises of a morning and the occasional bone sprain. 

She doesn't mind his careful treatment; she will tease but she doesn't push him too far. She wants to be a safe space for him, wants to bring him a kind of peace.

But oh, how she imagines. 

*

The Paris job is building slow, like a tortoise climbing a hill. 

Illya considers his strange, Western life as Solo places a steaming bowl of homemade mussel bisque with saffron in front of him. There's a crystal glass filled with sancerre, bright and tangy to taste. He's wearing a bespoke suit and there's only a knife in his boots; his guns are in the other room. Later, he will eat out Gaby till she tells him to stop. And he will sleep between them, comfortable and safe. 

His skin itches and his mouth waters, and there is something that aches in the drumbeat of his heart. He killed three men today, and now. And now, this domestic bullshit. 

Gaby has her legs crossed tight, and she is flirting with Solo in that open, abrasive way that she does. She shines in the dimmed light, this little girl with the lingering taste of East Berlin. And oh, how Russian sounds so beautiful in her mouth. 

Solo is wearing an apron, which delights him in the more dangerous, unstable parts of his mind. He's flirting back with the girl differently than he does with hostesses and countesses, and occasionally, that flash of a smile is directed at him.

Sometimes he wants them more than is reasonable, more than is allowed. 

*

Napoleon is surprised by waking up to Russian lips around his cock, Illya's mouth working skillfully at sucking him off.

"While I'm delighted by this, Peril," he says, threading his fingers through short hair more tenderly than he intended, "What?"

Pulling off, Illya looks up at him, exasperated and mute.

Napoleon stares at him, still sleepy and now increasingly harder. "What?"

"What?"

"What!"

This continues for a while before Illya rolls his eyes and goes back to business.

There is a completely embarrassing sound that rises and mewls out of Napoleon's throat. He tries to ignore the obvious sensation of Illya smiling against his rather sensitive skin.

*

Curiosity and necessity meet. Waverley separates the trio for a month, and he takes care to see how they react. 

The Soviets have Kuryakin for a brief stint, a favor between governments at war. Unofficial U.N.C.L.E. recon shows him in his Soviet uniform, as stoic and glowering as ever. 

Gaby spends the entire time training at HQ, knocking heads and breaking bones. 

Napoleon fucks a woman every night while they're away, and drinks more than ever. Flubs two missions and is ordered to just do deskwork in this stale interim. 

It's at that point that Waverley considers this information, reconsiders his opinions in light of certain facts. 

*

On his stint in the motherland, he meets with young KGB agents, all clamoring for information on how to infiltrate, how to understand the Americans and their fancy lifestyles. 

“How do you make him love you,” a child with bright, cunning eyes asks. 

Her fellow agent, as young as she is but with the crassness of someone older: "You suck his dick, Irina."

Illya shakes his head and gets down on his knees to look this Irina child, eye to eye. She reminds him of Gaby so much that his heart aches uncomfortably. That hungry, dangerous look hiding behind feigned disinterest. This one is strong, he thinks. 

“How do you make him loyal to you,” he corrects. “That is the question. Love is easy, loyalty is earned.”

Later, Comrade Oleg asks: "And Kuryakin, tell me of your loyalty to Russia."

Illya has expected the question. Truthfully, Illya expected this question to come after he was hung upside down with his toenails being removed one by one. 

Channeling every bit of pertness he's learned from Gaby: "Sniff out, suck up, survive." It's his father's words, whispered to him when he was younger than Irina. 

"And do you repeat that as a mantra while the American's balls deep in your ass?"

"I serve Mother Russia, comrade." Flintiness is something he learned from Solo.

What Illya did not expect is how little he believed those words anymore. 

*

Napoleon doesn't touch Gaby while Illya is away. She's found a nice medical examiner from the good old hardworking Office of Naval Intelligence, and she looks happy when their paths cross. But he allows for this potential truth: Gaby may have tells that he's not learned yet. 

(He's right.)

He does touch others and is relieved by the comfort of the old game: how to get the most beautiful woman in the room to fuck you. It's like sliding into a warm bath, the delight and ease of old habits. 

Oh, the familiarity of his heart emptying completely as lipstick stains his skin and his cock juts in a woman's mouth. The softness of a woman he'll never speak to again, filling the wait before he's ready again with the taste of her cunt against his tongue. It's like coming home, it's complete relief, it's what I'm meant to do, he thinks to himself, weaving a complex web of lies. 

Soon: Waverley brings him and Gaby to a quiet room and informs them they're headed to Morocco to meet up with Illya and infiltrate the T.H.R.U.S.H. unit there. 

He nods his head, calculating how quickly he can get his suit cleaned in time. 

Gaby touches his chest before they leave, leaning in so close that he can smell her. "I miss it too," she says with the motherly tone that she usually reserves for the Russian. 

See, _Napoleon_ has tells that everyone can see. 

*

It's not a thing, it's. 

It's not a thing they've done. Not like this. 

Not this awkward combination of desire for each other and for that heady rush of completion. It's so easy to be selfish when there's so many limbs and hands, and there are three mouths, two breasts, two cocks, and her—

Gaby groans deeply to have two sets of fingers inside her and pressed against her. It's good, it's so good; it's different treatment than she's used to from them both. Illya's cautiousness and Napoleon's precision unite and she's considering all kinds of pleasure they could rip out of her. She wants them, wants them both inside her, but will compromise for their fingers delving deep together. 

Another thing, a thing they don't quite do. It's a thing they're doing now; well. The boys are. She can hear more than see tongues in mouths, and she thinks about the odd rush of kissing so filthy that you don't care that you haven't sucked in breath for a long moment. Napoleon and Illya sandwich her as they kiss with an unexpected heat, knuckles deep inside her. 

She clamps down on the fingers inside, overcome with the sensation, and the rise of her orgasm makes her a mewling mess. And yet, they don't stop till she comes again, till she's so open and wet and aching. 

Illya pulls away to kiss her lips, so brief it's almost like a stolen kiss, and then he's pushed at her thigh so he can gently lick at her. Another tongue enters her, this time it's Napoleon kissing her like a lover does, not like he has kissed her before. His hand at her nipple is warm and teasing, and she wants to make demands but she can't think any sort of coherent thought other than: want. need. don't stop.

Napoleon is clearly the experienced one at this complex mess of desire, as he adjusts with a professional's skill all the while sucking kisses on skin. She loses them completely for a moment as Napoleon takes Illya in his mouth, so deep that she winces. Napoleon's eyes never close as he brings Illya to the brink and then pulls off, laughing as he does. They stare at each other, longer than necessary. 

She rolls over and away to sip on some now-lukewarm champagne while the boys wordlessly find the lube and get to work with it. The who and the how is discussed with their hands, a teasing slap, and when they get distracted by a kiss too sweet for two hardened spies, she coughs. 

Soon, it goes like this: she's filled completely with Illya's cock inside of her and the sweat rolling down her back is cold against the air. Illya between them is like a live wire, and she almost fears that he will lose it (and that fear is pretty intoxicating). Napoleon lies with his back against silk sheets and with his cock deep inside Illya, resting there before they feel able to move together.

They've never done this together, and it shows as they try, and fail, laugh and snipe at each other, and try again, and fail, and laugh more and more, and then get the hang of the position: a single form of legs and hands and desire and want. Her fingernails tear at skin, and her ears are full of their ragged breathing and Illya's moans. She wonders, for a moment, if he passes out, or just stops breathing from the sheer insanity of all the sensations. But then his thumb is at her clit and she's coming again, and there's nothing else she can analyze or catalogue but the blinding intensity of feeling. 

And then: they're a mess of limbs, softened from exertion, breathless. 

And then: they're a mess of thoughts, disquieted by how much, perhaps, they might just actually love each other.

*

It's Illya who says it first, though. 

And they will never let him forget it.


End file.
